I like the distortions of shadows. This one makes me look like a little kid. I also like the firm grasp on the walking stick, and the old man radiating through the shadow.
I like the distortions of shadows. This one makes me look like a little kid. I also like the firm grasp on the walking stick, and the old man radiating through the shadow.
ROCKLAND, Maine — In a subtly evocative installation photograph of John Walker: From Seal Point, currently on view at the Center for Maine Contemporary Art, the camera catches the light from the overhead clerestory windows in such a way that it seems to address, at least in part, how the paintings came to be and what they are about: The framing and passage of time.
The space that houses these ardent, full paintings — which seem to exhale in airy release — is so perfectly tuned to their eloquent fierceness, you might think Boston architect Toshiko Mori designed the gallery especially for Walker. The natural light washing the gallery walls, even on cloudy days, is both cleansing and muted, coaxing out the complexity of colors filtered through translucent gels, glazes, and pulsating globs. You can almost smell the salt air in John Walker’s most recent paintings, melding with the heavier, bracing smells and sounds from the nearby working harbor mere steps away from the museum. It’s the kind of vaulted and perfectly proportioned space that we imagine painters see, like dogs closing on rabbits, in their most rapturous dreams. Rarely does an exhibition conjoin so perfectly with its setting. Sometimes you just have to be there.
Born in Birmingham, England in 1939, Walker bought a house on Seal Point, Maine, in 1989. Prior to that, he had a distinguished teaching career that took him from Paris to London, Melbourne, New York, Boston, Yale and Oxford University. He is represented in permanent collections of major museums throughout the world, and he represented Great Britain at the 1972 Venice Biennale. Since retiring in 2014 from his most recent post, as director of the graduate program in art at Boston University, Seal Point is where he spends much of his time, working nearly every day.
Walker usually paints his larger canvases in a two-story former community hall near his home. In the hall, he found stacks of “Beano” or bingo cards that became the basis for small paintings. The 7 ½ x 5 ½-inch paintings on card stock are lightly but thoroughly worked and stand on their own as finished and fully realized paintings. They appear to be Walker’s heartfelt homage to the English landscape tradition — especially the work of John Constable — in which small, plein air paintings track moisture and ever-changing English skies over the cloud-piercing spire of Salisbury Cathedral. (One of the large paintings in the exhibition is titled “Constable’s Tree,” 2014).
For Walker, air, land, and sky are interchangeable in their fluidity; the artist paints them as layered, floating and charged, oozing, dragged within and often falling off the gridded card. Occasionally, printed elements from the Beano cards emerge, ghost-like from beneath the paint layers — a minuscule roving elephant, perhaps, or, more frequently, the underlying grid, including the numbers and letters of the bingo game. It has likely struck a bemused Walker that recycled and collaged numbers and alphabets had helped reinvent contemporary art half a century ago, in work by Jasper Johns. (Burying them once again beneath a different kind of abstract expression might well amuse Johns.) As intimate as the larger canvases are magisterial, the “Beano” paintings represent a distinct and intensely focused body of work. They encourage close looking, a teacher’s device for how one should penetrate, scan, and understand the larger paintings as well.
Walker is an unrepentant modernist who has led a resurgence — mostly through uncompromising example — of painters reinvigorating abstraction by looking to nature, ideas, emotion and, especially, place. The Seal Point paintings are the artist’s celebration of the tidal mud flats, wind-driven, irregular wave patterns, and the island-rimmed horizon hugging the upper edge of his canvases. It’s the view from his front door on Seal Point — arguably among the most visually arresting sights, fair weather and foul, along the entire Maine coast. Seal Point’s natural beauty borders on the sublime, initially intimidating Walker; it took ten years before he could paint what he saw.
As in the work of artists he most admires — Matisse, Hartley, Marin, even Rembrandt and Goya — Walker’s paintings don’t much look like their sources in the real world. Indeed, that is the point. They reference how a place feels more than how it looks, much like Richard Diebenkorn’s Ocean Park paintings describe the Southern California streetscape, his Santa Monica neighborhood’s compartments and divisions, dissolving into pure, high color within loose but straight boundaries, occasionally disappearing or simply slipping into the shimmering expanse of oceanic blueness. It represents a way of thinking about structure and color and place that Walker seems to share and references according his own unique vision.
Seal Point is Walker’s private realm of becoming, always present to his eye and real to his touch. The receding tide lets local clammers dig holes in the mud. The clam holes resemble the incantatory dotted surfaces of aboriginal Australian art (which Walker collects) that puncture painting’s essential flatness. Walker has often used actual mud in his paintings, mixing it with binders and gels to evoke a quality of “realness.” The mud of Seal Point and its anti-picturesque, muck-laden quality at low tide interests him far more than traditionally beautiful aspects of his property. Its wet rawness also seems to trigger personal associations. His father fought in World War I at the battles of The Somme and Passchendaele (where the elder Walker was wounded), muddy bloodbaths where casualties numbered over half a million. Only recently has he allowed lush color and generous expansiveness into the Seal Point paintings, yielding to fierce beauty — an act not of surrender but of ownership. Seal Point is not just an idyllic retreat. It is a place — his place — where long familiar sights and time-washed memories recur with the regularity of the incoming and outgoing tides. After years of “looking out to sea,” John Walker feels that he truly owns his way of seeing Seal Point, a view that is always different, revising and renewing itself.
John Walker: From Seal Point continues at the Center for Maine Contemporary Art (21 Winter Street, Rockland, Maine) through October 29.
John Walker and William Corbett, co-author of John Walker: Looking Out to Sea, will sign copies of the book at the Center for Maine Contemporary Art on September 10 between 3 and 5 p.m.
Playing with reflections and shadows. A candid look at the studio interior and the confused detritus of being an artist.
Last night outside Trump Tower, Jeffrey Beebe’s inflatable sculpture Trumpy the Rat made its debut and thousands of New Yorkers gathered to protest the president during his first visit home since taking office.
Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable is supposed to be Hirst’s major comeback, a rebuke to his diminished popularity and slumping market value.
VENICE — Damien Hirst’s Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable is not an exhibition. It’s a showroom for oligarchs. Comprised of about 190 works, including gold, silver, bronze, and marble sculptures, the show is undoubtedly the most expensive artistic flop in living memory.
Treasures is founded on a compelling concept that has had the life strangled out of it. The exhibition guide details the fictional discovery of an ancient shipwreck off the coast of East Africa in 2008. We’re told that scuba divers spent ten years recovering incredible finds: coins, weapons, crystals, and monumental sculptures encrusted with corals and other marine organisms. The wreck is attributed to an equally fictional collector, a freed slave named Cif Amotan II, who having amassed a fortune, supposedly loaded a ship (the ‘Unbelievable’) with his treasured collection of “commissions, copies, fakes, purchases, and plunder.” “Yet the vessel floundered,” the guide continues, “consigning its hoard to the realm of myth, and spawning myriad permutations of this story of ambition and avarice, splendor and hubris.” The exhibition is built on the premise that Hirst personally financed the excavation and has brought the objects to Venice for the public to enjoy.
It’s a brilliant lie, and one that could be enormously fun and engaging. Cif Amotan II is an anagram of “I am Fiction.” The works are by Hirst, and the enormous coral encrusted sculptures are actually meticulously painted bronze. These are displayed near pristine gold or marble editions of the exact same pieces, so-called “reproductions” of the scarred wreckage finds. The exhibition is split between the Punta Della Dogana and the Palazzo Grassi, private museums operated by French billionaire François Pinault, the owner of Christie’s auction house, a collector of Hirst’s work, and the co-financier of the exhibition. This is more than a little problematic.
Outside the Punta della Dogana is “The Fate of a Banished Man (Standing),” a monumental sculpture of a horse and rider entangled in the vice of a snarling serpent. The scene resembles a Hellenistic sculpture on steroids. For a work carved out of Carrara marble it looks extraordinarily cheap. The tree stump and rocks that make up the base of the sculpture are crudely carved, even cartoonish. It’s a portent of the excessive kitsch that follows inside.
A television monitor near the ticket office displays underwater footage of the excavation. This is easily the best feature of the exhibition. The imagery is beguiling: plumes of silt drifting off half-buried treasure, giant sculptures foregrounded by schools of fish, and raised objects shimmering in the shallows. The film is bolstered by a number of large light-box photographs scattered throughout the show, which purport to document where each artifact was found. They establish an aura of mystery that the objects fail to exploit.
The first room contains three of Hirst’s monumental, coral-encrusted bronzes, “Calendar Stone,” “The Diver,” and “The Warrior and the Bear” — each successively worse than the other. At a glance the sculptures make for impressive selfie-fodder, but up close the painted coral looks unconvincing. Some, but not all of the works, are accompanied by explanatory labels. We’re told that “Calendar Stone” is similar to the Piedra del Sol housed in the National Anthropology Museum in Mexico, but that “the presence of objects of presumed pre-Hispanic, South and Central American Origin within a Roman-era wreckage is currently unexplained.”
“The Warrior and the Bear,” a sculpture of a sword-wielding woman on a bear’s shoulders, is attributed to a maturation ritual for Athenian girls. However, the work doesn’t remotely resemble an ancient Greek sculpture. Thus, the show’s false conceit is immediately exposed. Other works include a Greek goddess with the head of a fly, a figure of Optimus Prime, multiple Disney characters, a sword emblazoned with the SeaWorld logo, and a silver bust of a figure wearing a gimp mask. A number of celebrities also make an appearance. Rihanna and Kate Moss are transformed into Egyptian deities, Pharrell Williams appears as a pharaoh, and Yolandi Visser (of Die Antwoord) stands in as the Mesopotamian goddess Ishtar.
A generous reading is that Hirst is commenting on our true cultural values. Perhaps the ancient gods were simply the contemporary equivalents of Mickey Mouse or Rihanna? Is it absurd to revere objects whose history and meaning we can barely access or comprehend? I could almost subscribe to this idea were it not for the fact that the show is littered with iconographic retreads: unicorns, a flayed horse, and so on. Hirst retreats into familiar territory instead of exploiting the thematic potential of his myth. The flagrant kitsch of the work also sits uneasily with the show’s conceit. The work announces its fakery immediately.
Elena Geuna, the show’s curator, has propagated the show’s fiction in interviews — maintaining that it truly is an exhibition of recovered artifacts — whereas Hirst can’t be bothered. It all feels a bit half-arsed. What if Hirst had produced works that looked real, leaving the viewer to second-guess themselves? Perhaps he could have inserted real artifacts among his own creations? Such a course would have required a great deal of effort and subtlety. By comparison, Hirst’s kitsch is simply an easier means to sell juvenile trinkets to idle and unengaged one-percenters — an audience for whom a Mickey Mouse covered in coral or a minotaur raping a buxom woman apparently constitutes some sort of genuine art-historical engagement.
“As an artist you always make work from what’s around you,” Hirst told the BBC in 2010, “and you know, money was around me.” Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable could have been the Blair Witch Project or Nat Tate of fake archeological excavations. Hirst is one of the very few artists with the means to achieve such ends.
There has been an elaborate effort to give the exhibit a museological feel, as evinced by the numerous sleek display cases and explanatory labels. The Palazzo Grassi includes a scale model of the Apistos (the ‘Unbelievable’) and a suite of aged pencil drawings of the artifacts. The latter are accompanied by various archival stamps, the sort you might see on drawings that have long been housed at the British Museum or the Victoria and Albert Museum. It’s an elaborate touch, and one that is undermined by the lazy and haphazard approach to maintaining the overall illusion of the show. For instance, if the wreck was discovered in 2008, then who made these drawings? Hirst could have positioned himself in a lineage of artists who have actively interrogated the function and history of museums and collections (Fred Wilson, Andrea Fraser, and Marcel Broodthaers for instance). Instead, Hirst’s starting point was presumably, “how many works will we produce, and how should we edition them?”
Am I taking the show’s premise too seriously? Isn’t it just a peg for Hirst to hang his new body of work on? Sure — but the resulting work is insipid. The exhibition lays waste to a brilliant and engaging concept. It is also unbelievablyrepetitive, with variations of the same sculptures in bronze, gold, silver, and crystal. The sheer avarice of the show is jaw-dropping. The combined space of both museums is 54,000 square feet. For context, the Whitney Museum has 50,000 square feet of interior exhibition space.
There are some works, which by sheer force of spectacle, manage to briefly seize your languishing interest. A prime example is “Demon with Bowl (Exhibition Enlargement),” an 18-meter resin figure built in situ at the heart of the Palazzo Grassi. It would probably be the most Instagrammed work of the show where not for the fact that it is impossible to capture in a single shot. Other behemoths include coral and non-coral variations of “Hydra and Kali,” in which the multi-limbed Hindu goddess (naked, of course) prepares to battle the renowned water monster of Greek and Roman mythology. There’s also a bright blue bronze depicting Andromeda screaming before a great white shark, a tentacled sea creature, and two piranha-like fish. These larger sculptures resemble pornographic re-imaginings of a Ray Harryhausen film.
Pinault financed the show with Hirst, though neither have stated its exact cost. When asked by New York Times reporter Carol Vogel whether he was effectively exploiting his museums for commercial gain, the collector gave a prickly response. “What can I say? I cannot avoid those comments. But this is not commercial. It’s about showing the art that I love.” In the same interview, Pinault all but admitted that he had acquired some of Hirst’s new work. “Perhaps. Probably,” he told Vogel, “but I am not going to tell you which ones!” Put simply, Pinault is promoting the art — and by extension, the market value — of an artist whose work he already owns. Assuming the show is a sell-out success, Pinault stands to enjoy a considerable appreciation to his collection’s value. To be clear, this is not illegal, but it does beg the question of what financial incentives or tax breaks, if any, Pinault’s foundation has enjoyed for housing his private collection in “the floating city.”
Various multi-million dollar production costs have been bandied around by a cabal of press officers, dealers, and Hirst collectors who stand to benefit from the ambiguity. Hirst is especially keen to perpetuate the mystery, as evinced in this absurd (and frankly, offensive) exchange with the BBC’s arts editor Will Gompertz:
WG: What did it cost?
DH: Er, what did we say? More than twenty, less than… [pauses] less than a hundred.
WG: [laughs] We can do better than that Damien. More than fifty or less than fifty million?
DH: Erm, I’m not sure. Oh, probably more. A lot of money.
DH: Yeah, mine.
Articles regarding Hirst and the art market are ten a penny, but an understanding of the exhibition’s economics is essential to understanding the reasons for its artistic failure. Treasures is supposed to be Hirst’s major come-back, a rebuke to his diminished popularity and slumping market value. The principal reason for this decline is saturation, both literal and conceptual. Hirst’s studio pumped out works recycling the same tired motifs: skulls, flies, butterflies, spots, and expensive pharmaceuticals. It got old and it got boring. Hirst’s 2009 exhibition at the Wallace Collection, a series of new paintings riffing off Francis Bacon — backfired spectacularly, with the late Brian Sewell memorably describing the show as “detestable” and “fucking dreadful.”
According to Vogel’s report, the works in Treasures range from $500,000 to $5 million, and a number of collectors have already professed to purchasing pieces in advance. Each work apparently comes in an edition of three with two artist proofs. These have been branded into three aesthetic types. A collector can buy a “Coral” edition (i.e. one of the encrusted artifacts recovered from the supposed wreck), a “Treasure” (a restored artifact) or a “Copy” (a reproduction of a wreckage find). That’s around 950 works in total. You do the math. There are also three separate publications for sale, priced at £75, £150, and £250. Visitor entry to both museums is €15. The exhibit has been strategically designed to make as much money as possible. After about ten minutes into the show, it becomes glaringly obvious that Hirst has abdicated his aesthetic and conceptual ambitions to economic priorities.
If we knew how much Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable cost to produce, it would probably set a benchmark for how much money can be sunk into something so visually brash and un-compelling. Though the show may be in couched in history and myth, it propagates the prevailing orthodoxy of our time — one in which our cultural heritage is increasingly molded and determined by the whims and fancies of a wealthy elite. Boredom has never come at so high a price.
Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable continues at the Punta della Dogana and the Palazzo Grassi (Venice, Italy) through December 3, 2017.
At the Movies
There’s a new biopic about Touko Laaksonen, the artist who is known as Tom of Finland. This review says that the film “certainly doesn’t water down Laaksonen’s distinctive aesthetic, nor does it downplay the role of this unassuming Finnish man as an icon of gay liberation.” [The Guardian]
Here’s a look at how the recent film Alien: Covenanttook inspiration for its shots from iconic paintings. [io9]
Lost and Found
Willem de Kooning’s Woman-Ochre—which has been missing since it was stolen from the University of Arizona Museum of Art in 1985—appears to have resurfaced at a Silver City, New Mexico, furniture and antiques shop. [The New York Times]
In response to the events in Charlottesville, Virginia, on Saturday, the mayor of Louisville, Kentucky, will look at the public art in his city to make sure there are no works that “could be interpreted as honoring bigotry, racism, or slavery.” [WHAS 11]
The United States Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., was one of many institutions and politicians to offer an clear condemnation of the white supremacists and neo-Nazis who marched on Saturday. “Neo-Nazism in any form is antithetical to American values and has no place in American society,” the statement reads. [The Huffington Post]
The art dealer Jeffrey Loria has officially sold the Miami Marlins, which he has owned since 2002, to an investment group led by former New York Yankee Derek Jeter. [The Miami Herald]
The MCA Chicago’s Twitter account has a truly epic Flashback Friday that takes us back to the historic first meeting between Takashi Murakami and Kanye West. [Twitter]
The New York Times‘s arts and culture section has a cool package this week where staff writers go deep on “Eight little things (a scene, a joke, a building, a pizza, a dance, a painting, a lyric, a sound) worth your time.” Here’s Joe Coscarelli on a lyric from Lil Uzi Vert’s instant classic, “XO Tour Llif3.” [The New York Times]
The Lower East Side
The restaurant Schiller’s Liquor Bar, a mainstay of the Lower East Side gallery district since it opened in 2003, closed last night after service. [Bowery Boogie]
People really seem to care about Dogumenta, which is like Documenta, but with dogs. [The New York Post]
A taxi smashed into the front window of an art gallery in a suburb of Sydney, Australia. [News.Com.Au]
Look at these ancient bowls and cups at the Yale University Art Gallery. [New Haven Register]
Here’s some installation shots of Tom Burr and Andrea Zittel’s show at Bortolami, “Concrete Realities,” that closed Friday. [Contemporary Art Daily]
After breaking my hip in April, by August I was doing physical therapy. I took a little camera with me one day, and shot an image of myself in front of a mirror in the therapy gym. I hate getting old(er), but I really like the vulnerability and fragility of this self portrait. And I love the fact that the tiny skeleton is missing the top of it’s skull.